


Semantics Won't Do

by sirona



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013), Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Codependency, Crossover, F/M, First Time, Get Together, Happy Ending, Loss of Virginity, Mentions of Violence, Pining, Pre-Canon, Protectiveness, Trust Issues, Underage Sex, archaic language in keeping with the time (I hope), implied slash after end credits, medieval sex ed, mild case of voyerism, selflessness, siblings incest, there are many kinds of love, they're two pretty fucked-up people basically, threesome (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't a story of Before, but there is a Before nontheless. This is a story of falling in love, and of finding peace. They just take the long way round to get there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semantics Won't Do

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to stardust_made, who read this over and made the most insightful comments and told me to post it and stop fretting, and to Nellie, ktnb and 17pansies for being wildly encouraging and incepting me to write this in the first place. Title from _In a Manner of Speaking_ by Nouvelle Vogue, the theme song for this fic.
> 
> Warning: I have not seen the movie yet. Preemptive apologies for getting things wrong, but the muse was too strong on this one.
> 
> For those worried about the underage sex tag: please see additional notes at the end of this fic.

“You can, you know,” Hansel said as he speared a piece of roast boar on his eating knife, clearly striving for disinterested and not quite making the grade.

Gretel pierced him with a narrow-eyed glare, the sneered ‘Please’ and the resigned, despairing ‘You know I can’t’ mingling in her mind until she didn’t know which emotion was foremost. 

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand what Hansel meant. Her brother saw everything; too much, she thought sometimes, though not for long – it was his stubborn insistence to pick at things, to see underneath the underneath, that was the reason they were still alive today.

Sometimes, though – sometimes he didn’t see enough.

She sighed and looked away from the bluest blue of his eyes, so extraordinary next to the plain brown of hers. She picked at her bread and cheese, and resolutely _forbid_ herself from looking across the room again, to the tall, broad-shouldered huntsman who had captured her attention. There was such sadness in his eyes, such longing, yet there was also the fierce stubbornness she recognised as her own, as Hansel’s, too. Was that the reason she felt so drawn to him?

No. She would not entertain such thoughts. She would not torture herself so, with things she could never have. She might be but fifteen, but she had seen too much, felt too much, to know that some things weren’t meant to be spoken about – even though she had never been very good at governing her own head. It came from growing up alone, with Hansel as the only point on her compass, the only constant in her life – her mother, father, brother, her—everything. It was not so with other women, she was well aware – her freedom was a price paid for dearly. She could no more live without it than she could find will to live without _him_ – without his steady hands and hot heart and cool head. So she buried those thoughts, those yearnings and emotions deep inside her, where no one would see, not even Hansel.

Still. She couldn’t go with the comely huntsman for a few hours, either, lose herself in him, find out if what she had heard could be true, the whispered chitter-chatter of servant girls, safe in the bowels of the kitchens of the inns she and Hansel stayed at sometimes. (They’d thought they were alone. They hadn’t known to check the shadows for presence that should not be there. Foolish girls – but it had served Gretel’s purpose well.) She couldn’t, because they might have killed the witch, and so many others after her, but the dye had been cast – she could never trust again not someone who was not Hansel. There had been too much betrayal in her past, too many broken promises, too many stab wounds in her back, for her to even consider trusting someone other than her brother to see her vulnerable like that – and that was out of the question, was it not? She had seen the way he looked at maidens, fair, curvaceous maidens who held nothing like her tall, scrawny frame. He would never look at her that way. It was an ache she carried with her, for so long now that it was a familiar dead weight in her chest. 

Hansel wasn’t looking at her; her head was down, but she would feel it if he did – she always felt his eyes on her, no matter how far away he was. The silence stretched until she thought the matter dropped and started thinking about pushing back from the table, appetite long gone. Even if she had fancied a tumble in the straw with the huntsman, she had few chances to entice him likewise. Yes, some of the men who had looked at her (and more, before they saw Hansel looming over her shoulder and melted away into the gloam) preferred tall, freely-spoken women with figures more suited to youths, but what were the chances that this huntsman would be so inclined? Yet there was something in him that called to her, like to like…

Hansel dropped the bread and meat he had been consuming in big, swift bites, and wiped his fingers on his trousers. Gretel did not look, did not follow the lines of grease they left on the worn leather. She hadn’t the right. She was not a lover, she was a sister, born almost two years after him – always chasing after him, it seemed, even to places he would never go.

“You could,” Hansel said again quietly. Gretel started, though the words were soft, reassuring. “You know I’ll always watch your back, sis. I’ll watch your back in this, too. One night, to satisfy your curiosity. You’ve earned one night of rest.”

He knew her too well to imagine she would want more than one night with a stranger. And she had seen the looks Hansel had sent the man’s way, too, looks that were half-suspicious, half-considering, half-something else that made her heart beat faster.

“What do you say?” he asked, still not looking at her—until he was, until eyes blue like the first clear day of spring pinned her to the spot, seeing deep, deeper, right through her. She set her jaw and looked back steadily – she may have felt many things for her brother, but the one thing she had always relished was _his_ scrutiny on her. 

“Yes,” she said. In a way, it was as much of a dare to herself as to him. Could he, would he go through with this? Would he watch her bed another man? Let him inside her body, allow him closer than she had ever let Hansel? 

It was a way to settle this once and for all. She was not looking for a partner – she had one, the best she would ever find. She could never be someone’s wife, bear him children whom she raised from the confines of her hearth. She was too much; there was too much in her head, too much had passed before her eyes to allow for a peaceful life. She would love her brother until something came that was stronger than her, that she could let take her down, give her an end to all this. She was growing tired of life, she knew; tired of fighting, tired of never finding peace at all, and that was never a good omen for a hunter – too easy, the switch to prey. She would love Hansel, and no other, until the end. She knew this like she knew which way was north, or the stages of the moon. 

Hansel watched her for a time, as if testing her conviction. He would not find her wanting. In the end, something closed off behind his eyes. Gone was the brother who shared jokes with her, who laughed as freely as he lived, no regrets, no hesitation, as if this moment, right now, was his last. He became in earnest the Scourge of witches he was known as throughout the land. Gretel did not shudder to have that look turned on her. He was Hansel, and she could not fear him if he held a razor-thin blade to her throat.

“Tonight,” he said. “I’ll take a room for us. Go, bait your prey.”

She watched him leave. She was calm, composed. No hysterics for Gretel the Huntress, not after all the blood that had dried on her hands, all the betrayals that had lashed her heart thick with scar tissue. She transferred her gaze to the huntsman, who was drinking deeply from a flagon of the local mead. She pushed back from the table and stood, tall and proud, the only way she knew how. 

The huntsman looked up as she approached, and she watched his eyes flicker, taking her in. When his gaze did not linger, or pass right through her, but afforded her the courtesy of not dismissing her as a mere woman, she knew that her intuition had not let her down. He _saw_ her. She had chosen well.

“Well met, my lady,” the huntsman said, inclining his head. He was a boar of a man – taller than the tallest humans Gretel had seen, broad of shoulder, hands huge on the table next to the remains of his meal. Even his head was big, with a mane of matted light hair. Oh, yes. A bath for both of them beforehand, to be sure.

“Well met, sir. I am possessed of a desire to ask you if you would be so inclined as to join me for my evening repast.”

The huntsman watched her carefully. “I would presume, my lady, that you speak not of food.”

“You would be correct.”

Again, the considering gaze. There was something wild in those eyes; but also something lonely. Gretel wondered if he saw in her what she had seen in him – a kindred soul, destined to wander with no harbour but what she made for herself.

“My lady, I would be most humbled to be so chosen.”

Gretel smiled faintly, pleased with his answer. “We have taken a room here. Second door on the left at the top of the stairs.” She knew without having to ask – it was the room with the best line of sight to the forest surrounding this small outcrop of civilisation. Of course Hansel would choose that one. “Attend to me when you are finished.”

The huntsman’s eyes grew pensive, and that lingering sadness peeked from behind lids lowered too late to hide it from Gretel’s watchful gaze. “And what of your companion?” he asked lowly, yet intent on the answer. 

Gretel considered him, then spoke. “My brother. My protector.” _My home._ “Would you have me cast him out of our room? For I will not.”

The huntsman nodded, as if her words confirmed something he had already known. “Your love for him is not just that for a beloved brother,” he said. There was no condemnation in his voice. What a queer fellow to have stumbled upon in the tiniest of hamlets along the shores of the White Kingdom, as it had become known since its new Queen had ascended to the throne not long ago.

“You bear me no ill will for my weakness,” she remarked, intrigued.

The huntsman’s eyes widened with honest surprise. “No, why should I? The things I have seen, my lady. What is another kind of love to all the evil in the world? It does not bring you peace, from what I see, and for that you have my heartfelt sympathy.”

There was something in his voice, behind the too-shrewd words, something…

“You do understand,” Gretel said, voice rich with wonder. “Do you love one whom you must not?”

The huntsman smiled, like one having drunk deeply from a beaker of bitter wine. “I love one whom I cannot give what she needs. Not I alone. Her love is mine to carry with me; yet what joy is there to have, knowing I cannot make her happy? There is a prince kneeling at her feet; let him try to change her heart, let her seek in him what she cannot find in me.”

Gretel listened, and nodded. She understood now the sadness in his eyes, the reason her soul had chosen his. They each loved another, yet longed for touch, for comfort. They would serve each other’s purpose well.

The huntsman looked at her with wistful longing in his gaze. “You look like her, a little. It’s your eyes. Your spirit shines from the inside out; and you are also kind, although forgive me, for none may be as kind as she. Perhaps—“

He did not finish. He did not have to. Gretel knew what he would say, what he wished for. It was not in her power to grant it; but comfort, at least, was.

“I will look for you in a half-hour, sir—my friend. May I call you ‘friend’?”

“Lady, you would do me a great honour.” He half-bowed. 

Gretel took her leave, anticipation churning in her gut. She did not yet know if it was the kind that led to battle or flight – but she knew she had nothing to fear from this man, either.

Hansel was pouring the last bucket of hot water into a large bathtub resting before the fire when she reached their room. Steam rose from within, tempting, causing the hair at Hansel’s temples to curl ever-so-slightly, just enough to make her hand itch to touch the softness, smooth it back. She twisted her fingers in the fastenings of her jerkin instead, setting to untying the thin leather straps that held it closed. Hansel’s eyes flickered down, to where her breasts were emerging from their binding, and then away. He stepped back.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, nodding at the bath. 

“He’s coming, I assume?” Hansel said, voice level. The pleasure in her chest at his usual, thoughtful kindness dimmed a little; she fought to keep her smile from slipping. 

“Yes. He’ll be here momentarily.”

Hansel nodded, a jerk of his head, and then crossed the small space to stand by the window, looking out. Gretel took her time removing her garments, and then slid into the blissfully hot water with a sigh of deep contentment. The sky outside the window was dimming rapidly, as was usual for this time of year; in the flickering light of the candles she saw Hansel’s small, secret smile of pleasure at her comfort. Her heart flipped painfully in her chest; she closed her eyes, and sunk deeper into the water. 

“The inn makes its own soap with the peaches that grow on the tree in the yard. I had the landlady bring up a bar of it with the bathtub.” Hansel spoke quietly, yet with a strange hint of tension. He was usually so candid and open, unhesitant of sharing all of himself with her that Gretel did not know what to make of this new, unexpected reticence to voice his thoughts. She hummed in acknowledgement and reached for the fragrant square she spied on the stool by the tub, holding it up to her face to inhale the sweet smell, and then drawing it over her skin, taking away the dirt and grime with every swipe. It smelled divine; she could not hold back a moan of delight. 

Hansel’s shoulders tightened under his tunic, his leather jacket long abandoned at the foot of the bed. His bare arms, clasped at the small of his back, flexed sharply. A low flare of heat kindled to life in Gretel’s belly, spreading over her body, downwards between her thighs, upwards into her breasts. They grew heavy, her nipples pebbled; she _longed_ , for a bittersweet second, for Hansel to turn to her, to look at her with fire in his eyes instead of mere warmth; for his hands to unclasp and join her body in the water—

The door admitted a quiet, polite knock. Hansel seemed to take a deep breath, shoulders squaring as if preparing for a fight; but then he turned sharply on his heel and strode to it, pausing for the merest of seconds before tugging it open. The huntsman stood framed in the roughly hewn wood, tall and imposing and _oh_ , rather enticing. 

“Good even,” he said, nodding respectfully at Hansel and smiling slightly when he spotted Gretel in the bathtub. “May I enter?”

“Please do,” Gretel said, holding out a hand. Hansel hesitated, but a moment later stepped stiffly aside, closing the door behind the huntsman’s back. The huntsman walked to the side of the bathtub, and for the first time, he looked at Gretel like a man looked at a woman, not a friend. 

“Truly you gift me with such bounty,” he said quietly. Gretel felt heat suffuse her face, and looked down at her slight, boyish body in a wondrous confusion that it could be the cause of such a tone in a man’s voice.

When she looked back up, the huntsman’s eyes were on her face, not lower, where she expected them to linger. “May I?” he said, and touched the fastenings of his own clothes. She nodded, making herself hold his eyes. He disrobed quickly, baring acres of lightly scarred chest, one thicker white scar curving over his side and fading towards his back. He reached for his trousers, and Gretel’s face, her whole body burned again, knowing what he would uncover. She was not so ignorant that she did not know what a man’s clothes covered; yet truly it was a sight to behold, golden skin dusted with coarse hair, thickly muscled legs joining at the groin, the length of his manhood swaying gently between them. He was not a small man, and it should have been no surprise to see the size of him there; yet it was, and the thought of taking all of that into her own body made Gretel shiver at once with desire and apprehension. 

“My lady, it is you who will lead this tryst, not me. Say the word, and I am gone.”

It was far from what Gretel wanted. “Come sit with me,” she said instead, surprised at the sound of her own voice – lower than she was used to, smoother, too. She held out a hand, and the huntsman took it, stepping inside the small tub that did not look fit to hold anyone of his size and sliding awkwardly under the water. The touch of his skin was not unpleasant; indeed, it made hers come alive with a light buzz of need. 

Still standing by the door, as if made of wood himself, Hansel cleared his throat. Gretel turned to look without even meaning to; one moment, she was appreciating the strong slope of the huntsman’s shoulders, and in the other her eyes were caught in the fathomless depths of Hansel’s, caught and held, and it was the touch of the huntsman’s hand on hers that brought her back around to the naked man sitting so close to her bare body. The huntsman’s eyes were kind when he gently pulled her fingers open from around the bar of soap, mouth quirking at the lines they had left there. Then he touched her, a light swipe of fingers along the inside of her thigh, almost too light to feel – yet not. Gretel’s skin heated under the caress; a fire burst into being deep between her thighs, as if the water had reached inside her and boiled from the heat within. She moaned lightly, more from surprise than fevered impatience.

The huntsman’s hand did not stop. It swiped upwards over the flatness of her stomach, up her side, until his thumb could close the distance to her left breast and press over the peak of it.

“Ah,” she cried, eyes widening until the room itself lit up. Her clothes touched her like this all day long; how was it that she had never felt this spike of sensation that seemed attached to the space between her legs, until every press felt like a fresh caress inside her?

“So responsive,” the huntsman breathed, appreciation in his voice. “My lady, truly you honour me.”

Gretel lifted a hand, and with bravery honed in a hundred battles, placed it on his arm, to feel it flex as he moved. It was strong, firm, as strong as—yes, to Hell with it, as strong as Hansel’s, as muscled. The mere thought made that space inside her convulse, muscles she had only barely been aware of (mostly during the one unpleasant week per month she could not avoid) tightening as if they wanted something there to cling to. 

“God above,” she moaned. “I thought the girls were lying. I didn’t think anything could feel like this.”

“And we have only just begun, lady. You will feel things tonight you never have before, my oath on that.” The huntsman’s voice had deepened, too, and gained a husky edge that was pleasing to the ear. 

“To bed, then,” Gretel said, growing bold with the pleasure. Pain, she was used too. Pain, she felt every day of her life; she knew pain like an old friend, bad teeth and rancid breath and twiggy fingers that dug into flesh until one could scream. This, this was something worth dying for – worth _living_ for. She only wished—but no. She should take what was so gallantly, so generously offered, and stop pining after things that could never be.

“Aye, to bed,” the huntsman said, lifting her so easily, as if she did not weigh more than a feather. He stepped out of the tub and carried her to the bed – much wider than she was used to, when she curled into Hansel’s side each night and dreamed, just for a while. The huntsman placed her gently upon the sheets and lowered himself after her, covering her with his body. Her legs fell open without direction, letting him into their cradle. He was heavy, but the weight was not displeasing; indeed, it was another kind of pleasure. His lips touched upon her neck, and kissed, and opened to let his tongue stroke her skin. Gretel let her head fall back, and sighed. 

The angle brought Hansel in her line of sight, and she let herself take in the beloved face, always so beautifully expressive, the curve of his mouth, lips red as if from biting. Oh, how she wanted to taste them, to know what it was like to be kissed by someone she loved, someone she longed for so desperately. 

As if he’d heard her thoughts, the huntsman’s head lifted and he looked down at her from no more than two inches away. His eyes were blue, too, light like the sky just after sunrise, nothing like the deep, tempting blue of Hansel’s but captivating in their own way. The huntsman looked at her, and smiled, and lowered his mouth to hers. 

The kiss was good, but not as good as she had imagined her first kiss might be. He was skilled, that was certain; yet there was something it lacked, a kind of spark that Gretel knew instinctively that she was destined never to feel – because the only person who could call it from her never would. So she sighed, and kissed back as best she could, and closed her eyes, tried to imagine another mouth, another body – shorter, more compact, yet strong and nimble in its way, devious when it needed to be, a fighter’s body. A lover’s body.

The huntsman’s hand traced long lines over her side, nudging her leg higher over his hip. His fingers slid under, and in, and Gretel’s whole body arched into the one on top of her, begging for more. The huntsman’s fingers were gentle yet implacable, breaching her open, slicking themselves on the wetness he found there and gliding in and out of her opening at an easy pace. 

“When I enter your body for the first time, it will hurt, for you are untried,” he warned in a low voice. Gretel almost scoffed – hadn’t she said? She knew pain inside out. But the huntsman was earnest, and it was a kindness Gretel knew not many men would afford her. 

“I do not mind. Come, I want you.”

The huntsman paused, looking down again. His other hand lifted, and brushed the curls that had escaped her braid back from her face. “You are brave beyond your years,” he murmured. She could read the rest in his eyes – ‘Just like her,’ his lost love, willingly given up for a reason Gretel could not understand. If he had her love, would he not fight? Would she not fight, if there was even the slightest chance? Gretel knew little of emotions, but of this much she was sure – _she_ would.

“Breathe deeply, and try to relax. It will help with the pain,” he said close to her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. She nodded, and felt something huge and blunt press against her—and then into her, splitting her open. Oh, there was pain, sure enough – bright and sharp, like the edge of a knife – but there was also, deep beneath it, a pleasure that was starting to overtake her whole body. With one last jerk, he was inside her, all of him, and she clenched her eyes and bit down on her lip and did not cry out. She breathed, like he’d told her to, and her body, used to abuse of another kind if not this, adjusted, little by little, until her breathing stopped hurting and started to rekindle the flame that had banked with the sting.

She opened her eyes as the huntsman shifted a little and started to rock inside her with a steady rhythm. Her gaze landed on Hansel, gone still like he had been carved out of marble, his eyes, wild and conflicted, glued to hers. His face was twisted like he was the one in pain, and his fists were clenched so tight that a droplet of blood trailed down the side of one, dripping to the floor as she watched. With every movement, a jolt of pleasure danced down Gretel’s spine, made all the more intense by the way Hansel stared at her, eyes burning now, burning like she had never seen before, not even in battle. 

“Hansel,” she said, and the name came out on a moan as the huntsman shifted their angle and twisted his hips. Hansel swayed in place, fresh sweat beading over his face, his arms. Gretel dared to look down; it took all of her courage, but her reward was immense – there was a hard line inside Hansel’s trousers, thick enough to be seen even through the leather. He was—he was—

The huntsman’s hand closed on her breast as he grunted his pleasure, and Gretel saw stars. She was still reeling from the realisation that Hansel had felt something, desire enough to make his body react – for her? Or for the beautiful line of the huntsman’s back, his bare buttocks? Could it be that Hansel would rather bury himself inside them than her?

Her body was moving of its own accord. She was rising and falling with the rhythm set by the huntsman’s thrusts, pleasure peaking and swooping, but it was not enough; it felt like there was something wonderful waiting for her just out of her reach, and it was driving her out of her mind.

“I can’t,” she sobbed, “I—help me!”

Hansel took an urgent step forward, then another. “Do you want me to stop him?” he snapped out, voice sandpaper-rough.

“No, I— _more_ ,” she demanded, unknowing what she needed but desperate enough to ask for anything.

“Come here,” the huntsman growled, resettling himself so he was sitting back on his heels, still buried to the hilt inside her body. He beckoned with one hand, and Hansel came, movements stilted, like he was being led by a puppeteer with a hand on his strings. “I cannot give her what she needs; she will not take it from me. She needs you, can you not see? Or do you not _want_ to see what you mean to her?”

Hansel shook his head mutely, eyes boring holes into Gretel’s; they hadn’t left her all this while. She couldn’t think; she was coming apart, hanging by a thread that refused to break. “Hansel, please,” she whispered, the last of her walls falling to the ground in a plume of dust, leaving behind only raw need.

“What can I do?” Hansel asked, voice so quiet that at first Gretel wasn’t sure she had heard him speak at all. 

“Give me your hand,” the huntsman directed, and as if in a dream, Hansel obeyed. The huntsman pulled him closer, down until Gretel felt his fingers on the seam of their joining, where her body stretched around the huntsman’s. 

“Now, feel her,” the huntsman directed, pulling back and surging forward again until Gretel’s head hung back, throat exposed to the room. Hansel’s fingers were careful yet greedy, like at last he had been given permission for something he had wanted for so long. Gretel was too far gone to make sense of this at all; how could Hansel _not know_ —

“Here.” Hansel’s hand was moved, until his fingers found something that made Gretel moan wildly and writhe over the sheets. “This is her most sensitive spot; this is what you touch, and kiss, until she reaches her completion. She might not always need it, but you should know what it is you need to find.”

“Oh, God,” Gretel moaned, the tension inside her body winding up until she thought that any minute now she would explode, come apart, be unmade. “Kiss me,” she begged, and did not even realise who it was that complied, but her lips were being pushed open, and a tongue was invading her mouth, and the _taste_ —

Blinding light, even though her eyes were closed. A hollow thud in her ears, her whole body _on fire_ , clenching down on anything she could find; the thickness inside her that lingered still, that taste in her mouth, the strong hand in hers, fingers tangled together, the smell of Hansel close, safe, home, brother, lover, world… She did not want this to ever end.

But end it did, with the sting of something slipping out of her suddenly sore channel. She winced, and let out a small gasp when the huntsman pulled himself out, her body gratefully receding, closing in on itself. She turned on her side, curling further into Hansel’s space, burrowing her head into his chest. There was a soft, slick sound from close by, and then a peculiar smell in the air, and the huntsman let out a short, choked groan, slumping onto the bed against her back. Silence reined, far from charged; as comfortable as it had been of late, with her secret and Hansel’s stubborn ignorance of what was before him. Now, it was peaceful, like it had been years ago, like it had always been between them before Gretel started asking for more than Hansel could give – or at least that was what she had thought. She wondered now, safe in his arms that clutched her to his chest, his cheek pillowed onto her hair, if he had been the one asking, clumsy like a newborn babe, and she had been the one who hadn’t seen.

Safe and comforted, spent and feeling lighter than she had in years, Gretel slept.

When she heard the voices, she thought she was still dreaming at first. Gradually, voices became words, and words started acquiring meaning.

“…But to watch another man lie with the woman I love—I do not know if I could bear that.”

“You could. For her. If it’s what she needs, you will, and you won’t even ask yourself how to do it.”

It was Hansel’s voice, that last, and the words it shaped spoke of hurt buried as deep as Gretel had buried her own, carefully hidden so it would not offend. God, that he could feel the things she felt… Her arms tightened around him on their own accord, and she felt his close around her more safely. He had to be aware that she was awake, but he did not speak to her, only let her lie there, face pressed to his shirt that remained unshed, smelling the scent of his skin underneath.

“Would she even want me there, if she could have him? Would she want me to see?” the huntsman was asking, and Gretel understood immediately what they spoke of. She made herself move, turning in Hansel’s arms to press her back to his chest and resting her arms over his as he hooked his chin over her shoulder.

“She would, if she loves you like I love—like I love Hansel,” she said, daring to at last voice what all three of them knew to be true. “That you would still wish to be there, with her, even if you knew she needs more than you can give - it would mean everything to her.”

“Of course I would wish to. I would never leave her if she found it in her heart to let me stay, even though I could never be—“ He hesitated, biting down on his lip, eyes clouded in thought. “Even though I could never be the king she needs,” he finished quietly. _Oh,_ Gretel thought, _oh_ indeed. So it was the Queen that their humble huntsman loved, who loved him in return. Gretel could see where all his hesitation, uncertainty, confusion came from. It was a difficult position, to be sure. 

But perhaps—

“My friend,” she said tentatively, waiting to see if her advice may be welcomed. “The prince you told me about. The one who loves her like you do. Would he—could he be amenable to such an arrangement? Perhaps you give him too little credit. I do not know the man of whom you speak, of course, but—you spoke of many kinds of love. Perhaps there could be love between you as well, as comrades, as two men devoted to the same woman. In bed, too; I have seen—“ She turned her head a little to look at Hansel’s face, which flamed so red the heat of it teased her cheek. “There are possibilities which you have perhaps not considered, is my argument.”

The huntsman looked thoughtful – truly thoughtful, not merely humouring her. Her chest warmed at the thought, that she might after all been of help to him, at least half as much as he had been of help to her. And besides – there was the slightest of pressures beneath her buttocks, growing steadier as moments passed and the huntsman lifted his eyes to the two of them, consideration in their depths.

“And, my friend, since you find yourself in such fortuitous circumstances,” she added, a teasing lilt to her voice that surprised and pleased her – and not just her, going by the way Hansel’s arms tightened and the huntsman’s mouth twitched at the corners.

“You would do this? For me?” he asked in wonder.

She smiled in earnest this time. “Not for you alone, fond of you as I have become. Hansel and I, we are not like other people. We never have been. I can watch him bed you and feel nothing but pleasure at his pleasure. I know that _I_ am the one who gets to keep him in the end.”

There was the smallest kiss at the back of her left shoulder, the tiniest whisper of ‘Thank you.’ The huntsman looked at them, hope spreading flimsy wings on his face; the kind of hope, perhaps, that has long been absent from his life.

“Truly you are extraordinary,” he murmured, finding her hand and lifting it to his lips. “Your brother is fortunate beyond measure.”

“Don’t think I don’t know it,” Hansel said from behind her, self-deprecation and gratitude in his voice. 

“So, what is it to be? Will you take a chance with us, to know yourself a little better?” Gretel asked, taking care to leave nothing in her voice but encouragement and an honest question. 

The huntsman smiled. “For her, I would do anything. I accept your generous offer.”

“In that case,” Gretel said, turning the hand still in his so it could draw him closer. “Come kiss my brother.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, the underage sex thing: Gretel is 15 in this story. Seeing as this fic is set in Medieval times, I don't see this as a problem myself -- being 15 back then is like being a 20-something in modern day. People just grew up faster, and by their standards, Gretel was actually late to get started. (Not to mention that with everything she had been through, by that time she was practically an adult.) I couldn't make her any older and stay in keeping with the time period without getting too off-base. Hansel is 17 in this story, and the Huntsman is around 19, I can't see him being any older. (And anyway, if you think that Snow White was meant to be older than 15 in the film -- well, the least said, the better.) Gretel is the one who initiates the whole encounter, and all the power is with her. 
> 
> However, if any of this makes you uncomfortable, please don't read this story. Self-care comes first. :)


End file.
